Onyx History
She awoke in Karandia in autumn of 501, under a sky alight with falling stars. She had no names for the stars, and thinking it through, she had no name for herself. When she moved, pain engulfed her, and she blacked out. She woke again some time later, under a bright sunlit sky. She and the ground around her were damp, though the stone beneath her was dry. She suspected it had snowed on her. The bone-deep cold eased the pain, however, and she was able to move a little. She raised her head and looked at herself. She was unsurprised to find herself covered in blood. It was difficult to tell from this angle, but some of it appeared to be black ichor mixed in with her own good red. The movement made her head pound, but she didn’t black out this time. She laid her head back on the stone ground and slowly stretched, feeling each area of damage. There were many and more of them. She spared a thought to wonder how she was alive … and then wondered what she had been fighting. She couldn’t recall. Sitting straight up was definitely not an option, so she rolled to one side. That made her pause again, for a long while, as barely-healed bones started grinding against each other. She wasn’t sure how long it took her to clamber to her feet. Hours, it felt like. The sun had certainly dropped farther toward the horizon. Unsteady, she looked around for something to lean on for a moment. There was nothing, neither tree nor boulder in sight. Just herself, on a windswept mountain peak, with no gear, no weapons … not even any clothes. That surprised her. What had happened to her clothes? Well, perhaps it had to do with the fact that the area for several meters around her looked rather charred. She looked at herself again. Bloody and gashed open, though healing, but no obvious burns … hmmm. Well, add it to the list of mysteries, though somewhere below the listing for who she was. That was when she noticed the sword. From its position, and the pattern of bloodstains and scorched areas, she realized she must have been lying on it. It was a longsword, and oriented with its hilt toward where her head had been, and blade toward her hips. The blade seemed to be dark grey, and though it appeared to be of fine make and well tooled about the hilts, it seemed nothing special. Yet another mystery, then. She made her way to it, and spent a few minutes reaching down very carefully to pick it up, only to just as carefully stand once she had it in her grip. She moved automatically to place it into a scabbard, before coming up short against the realization that no clothes meant no sword belt either. Such a nuisance. She settled on resting the blade on her shoulder, and slowly, painfully, she hobbled down the mountain. * Time passed strangely for her. She was vaguely aware of its passing, but it didn’t seem to be very important. It was like listening to a foreign language - pretty, but meaningless. The next concrete thing she remembered was people finding her and exclaiming over her. She was dismayed to learn that nothing they said sank in. It was like waves washing over drawings in the sand; every time she was close to grasping a meaning, the next wave would wipe it all away again. Still, the people were kind. They wrapped her in a blanket, and took her to their home, a place of golden wood and a warm fire. She sat on the hearth as the woman washed her skin and bandaged her wounds, pointing to some marking on her chest. Some sort of flower. It was probably important, but the water had been heated at the fire, and felt wonderful, and she let herself slip off again under the woman’s gentle ministrations. * Some undefined time later she woke again. Birds were singing outside her window, and the last few russet leaves of the oak trees were rustling in a gentle breeze. The roof above her slanted steeply, and she realized she must be in an attic room, under the eaves. That’s when she realized that she knew what eaves were, and was glad of the knowledge. She lay still for a while, probing her own mind. Time finally felt as if it were marching properly on its assigned path. She could remember one moment to the next, and she felt truly awake for the first time. She remembered the people finding her. Humans. She remembered that now, it was humans that had found her, and she was not one of them. An Elf, she was an Elf. She lived in … no, that was gone. So too was her name, lost to her, as well as the reason she had been on that mountaintop in the first place, and what had harmed her so grievously. Well, she’d never sort it all out by lying in bed. Up we get, then, one foot in front of the other until she remembered, found, or stumbled across the answers. * The humans gave her the name Onyx, because her eyes reminded them of that stone. She stayed with them through the winter, regaining her strength. They told her she was in a country called Karandia, and it was ruled and largely populated by humans. They told her of Doro Y’Edhel, and of Quivera and the Vesve Forest, but acknowledged that she could be from there or from anywhere, as Elves did occasionally leave the forest and travel throughout the lands. As the weeks passed and strength returned to her arms, she took the man’s bow and began hunting through the forest for game to supplement the table and begin to pay her hosts back for their continuing kindnesses. She discovered she had an affinity for archery; while she could not remember ever using a bow before, upon picking it up it felt like an old friend. The sword she had carried from the mountain top she kept hidden under her mattress. It was important, she felt, though she could not have said why. Once the trees began to bud, she felt called to move on. The answers were not in the crofter’s house, any more than they were in the attic room, and the wide world beckoned. The man made her a gift of the bow, and gave her one more thing; a blue and green pendant made of glass. It would help her, he said, though he refused to say how. He had taken it from a cabinet at one side of the room, a furnishing that Onyx had occasionally wondered about. It was always kept tightly locked, and bore a slash mark on each door, like the mark made by the claw of a bear. One mark was green, and one was white. But every time she noticed it, she would soon lose the motivation to ask about it. Curious, but just one more in the list of mysteries. Her chosen journey day dawned bright and clear. Onyx bid the crofters a fond farewell, and turned her eyes and her feet to the horizon. * The years passed, but Onyx’s memory did not return. She wandered Xaria, making a living first as a hunter and furrier, then as a ranger, guide, big-game hunter, monster-slayer, and finally bounty hunter. She kept the mark – which she later realized was a tattoo – carefully hidden, and got other tattoos over time to provide camouflage. She still could not remember its significance, though she had a feeling it was what was responsible for her being on top of that mountain. For some reason that she could not name, she avoided the lands of the Elves. She had the oddest feeling that it wasn’t time yet. She did feel the death of the Queen in 504. She blacked out for a week, and spent the next week sobbing uncontrollably. Not her best time ever. 507 found her in a fighting retreat helping the remnants of Lindora as they fled the oncoming undead. 508 saw her defending refugees from bandits along the paths of retreat. In 510 she was guarding supply shipments into Hyrm-Chel. She rapidly decided she does Not. Like. Swamps. By 511 she had gone freelance and was taking bounties on monsters, from there moving on to criminals. She usually only accepted the fee from those who she was sure could afford it, and she did her best to only take bounties on criminals where the person’s guilt was beyond question. She traveled widely, associating mostly with humans, though she heard occasional tidbits of news from the Elven and Dwarven lands. In 512, however, it was time. She suddenly, though not sure of the reason for her change of heart, was under the strong impression that it was time to return home. As she made the decision and turned her feet to the long journey, her memories started creeping back, beginning with her name. Cuivielen, she was called Cuivielen, which in the Human tongue translated to "The Star of Morning". She next remembered fighting along the border of Chalter Medrium during the time of the Mad King, in 490 - 493. She and her squad were on deployment inside the border of Chalter Medrium, helping to evacuate Elven refugees fleeing from the Mad King’s persecution. While she and a partner were scouting out the paths ahead, they came across a small band of refugees guarding their wounded in a narrow spot at the bottom of a canyon. They were being harried by dozens of the Mad King’s armsmen, and the refugees were already weary and bloodied, with not long to stand before being overrun. Cuivielen and her partner organized the ambush with the tilt of a chin and a nod. Splitting up to cover both sides of the path, they began firing as one into the mass of angry humans. The first rank fell quickly, and the second, and the third. The rest backed away from the wounded Elves, but took cover and began making their way toward their attackers. Well an archer with no backup is soon a dead archer unless they are fast, so Cuivielen ran. She used a tactic that had served her well to that point - everyone expects an archer to run away from people with swords. Running at those same people, waving your bow around your head like a crazy woman, will sometimes give attackers pause. It worked this time as well, though one of them did have the presence of mind to stick a sword into her leg. She didn’t notice this until later, however. Her partner was overwhelmed and slain in short order, but Cuivielen kept going. She could hear the humans chasing her, and getting nearer, but Cuivielen knew no fear. The stream that made the channel was to her right and down, a several-foot drop from the trail. With no warning, she took a hard turn and leapt the creek. It was a foolish maneuver, and it did not go flawlessly. When she landed she heard something crack, and her left leg gave way, but she was across and safe for the nonce. The humans pulled up short, valuing their hides more than she apparently did. Wasting no time, Cuivielen continued firing. She didn’t need to be able to stand to fire her short bow, and feathers began sprouting from the torsos of the attackers. Their cries drew the others, until the entire squad of the humans had gathered across the creek from her safe spot. Happily, none of them had distance weapons, and she was managing to dissuade them from crossing the water, but her arrow supply was not infinite and there were many and more of them. It was not long until her fingers found only two arrows left in her quiver. Two arrows, for some twenty humans still moving. She calculated that this was the moment of her death, and cast her eyes skyward to say a last goodbye to the sun. That’s when she noticed the overhang. At this point in the ravine, the creek took a turn, and had over the long centuries past carved a channel under a ledge of rock above. That ledge had in turn weakened with its loss of support, and Cuivielen could seen the cracks and flaws in the stone as if they were calling to her. The rock face continued up above that ledge, and so did the flaws. She paused to figure, and the humans began edging into the stream. There was no time. She drew, released. The arrow sped to its destination, but flew just short of its mark, a melon-sized stone at the very top of the wall. One arrow left. Her last chance. She drew again, and overdrew, straining until she felt she or the bow must surely break. Breathe out, pause. Release. The arrow flew true, and the stone fell. It hit another, and another, and more. Slowly, ever so slowly, the loose stones began to move as each kissed the next and passed on its momentum. The humans heard the noise behind them, and as one they turned in horror. They none of them had time to truly react before the rocks, ever larger in size, began pummeling the flawed ledge. The wall groaned like a wounded animal as the ledge tilted, yawed, and gave way, plummeting down directly on top of the company of the Mad King’s troops. And the stone kept coming. Any outliers, any stragglers, all were buried as the whole wall gave way. Cuivielen’s plan had worked … too well, as she watched the stones bounce into the stream, and begin to fill it. The whole wall was settling, and as the stream filled, more rocks began bouncing to her side of it. Now she too was in danger of being buried, and for the first time in her life, she was afraid. Fear gave her wings, and the ability to totally ignore her shattered leg. Using her bow as a crutch, something for which she’d kick herself later, she maneuvered herself up and over to a nearby sentinel pine. Behind it was a decent hiding place, but no guarantee that she still wouldn’t end up entombed. No help for it but to climb, so climb she did, dragging her useless leg behind her. It seemed like hours before the wall settled to the bottom of the chasm, though it was probably only a handful of minutes. She spared a thought for the refugees, though she was fairly certain that her sprint had taken she and her pursuers well out of range of them, which made them well out of range of the hazard. Now she only had to figure out how to get down out of the tree. A timeless time later, using only three of her own limbs but many of the tree’s, she again reached the ground. It was a few feet higher than it had been, and though hers still stood, several of the nearby trees had succumbed to the onslaught and were lying aslant and askew. The trek across the loose stones was even worse than the climb down from the trees, but largely through crawling and scooting, she managed to make it past the area of the rockslide. Once back on the main path, she sat - well, collapsed - and put her head in her hands, totally drained of any further will to move. The Elf in the grey tabard found her there, some several minutes later. Cuivielen came back to herself at the feel of a gentle hand on her shoulder. The hand belonged to a woman with sparkling blue eyes that were full of admiration, and russet hair that curled around her slanted ears, one of which had several piercings in a variety of metals. “I saw the whole thing, my lady. You’re very brave.” Cuivielen started to say something elegant and self-effacing, but the world swam a bit and all she could do was gasp. The woman’s eyes grew compassionate, and she passed her hand over Cuivielen’s hurts, murmuring softly. The pain drained away as the woman’s hands moved, and Cuivielen sighed her relief. That was where that memory ended. The next bits and pieces of memory were of growing up with her mother's sister, a willowy woman named Edhelhith (the Mist Elf), a Sorceress living deep in the forests of Doro Y’Edhel. To say that Edhelhith was reclusive would be to do reclusives a vast disservice. It was all vague impressions of time passing, but it seemed that decades passed where Cuivielen saw no one but her Aunt, and even her but rarely once Cuivielen had reached an age where she could take care of herself. Edhelhith was frequently gone on long searches for components, but she had taken thought to the safety of her niece and had woven a spell about her domicile that used the mists of the forest to conceal house and child. It was a pleasant, dreamy sort of existence. Edhelhith taught Cuivielen how to read and speak Elven and the language of Magik as well, for Edhelhith saw her niece’s potential as a True Mage. She did not teach her of spellcasting, nor mention the girl’s ability; instead, she merely taught it to her as another language, and left it at that. Once Cuivielen had reached an age to be able to draw a bow, Edhelhith brought one back from one of her journeys and taught the girl how to use it. She gave her the key to controlling the mists, and set her loose to bring food to the table. She had no memories of leaving the forest however, or what led from that to the avalanche in the ravine. The last memories that swam to the surface of her mind were of fighting Dark Elves in dark forests. Snippets of ambushes and traps, dodging death magik and firing arrows from tall trees. She remembered being weary, bloody, and hungry, for normal forest game could not abide the presence of the Dark Ones and the foliage was blighting from their presence and their necromancy, leaving little and less to eat. At one point she remembered being hunted, having been cut off from her unit, though she could not remember their faces or names. She remembered them chasing her though, always just behind her and she was never able to sleep or rest. There was no memory of the end of the chase, of how she survived, or how she got from there to the mountaintop, but the hatred of all the Dark Elves remained. * In April of 512, she had made it around the northern border of Uragoth and past Chalter Medrium to the border of Doro Y'Edhel. Something was pulling her to this place, different from though akin to the feeling that was leading her home after all this time. Sometime after the mid of day, she came upon a Waystation with perhaps a dozen other travelers, all heading through for reasons of their own. There was a one-eyed Veldren Knight named Hargreave who was leading two young Elven boys to Doro Y'Edhel, with a human guide named Galen. The boys had been prisoners in Dakkor, caged though worshipped as gods. There was a young Elven lady named Brenn, who was later joined by another Veldren Knight, an Elf named Jordan. There was a young healer and man-at-arms named Castren, and a Crop Chanter named Marna Sutter. There was a dwarf known as Dietermar, the tallest Dwarf she had ever seen, joined later by another Dwarf named Granthem. She found out later the reason for Dietermar's height: he was a Giant, raised by Dwarves and self-identifying as one of them. The human running the Waystation was named Ichabod, though he went by Ikky for short. Last of all there was another Elven gentleman named Aeylarik. He seemed a scout, and later told Cuivielen that he was a Gatherer for the Elven Council. His face triggered a memory - just a flash. She didn't have anything to connect to it - just his face, speaking to someone, surrounded by majestic ancient trees. She spent the rest of that day trying to place him, to no avail. The area where she found herself was losing its connexion to the Fae Realms, and beginning to drift, spiritually, for lack of any better way to describe it. She quickly became aware, through conversations with the other travelers, that this was happening all over the Elven lands due to the death of the Queen some years ago, and the fact that the Queen's only daughter and heir had been missing for even longer. The Queen was the anchor, the portal, that kept the Fae Realm and the Elven lands tied, and let all the Elves access their innate natural magic. Elves had not been able to blend with the woods or shrug off certain debilitating spells since losing their Queen, but now it was even beginning to affect the land, and some spots - such as this one - worse than others. Much debate ensued over the course of the day, as to the best direction to take in an attempt to "fix" the area. More information would come up from time to time in the form of dead humanoids wandering through the area, or a legendary betentacled monster of some sort that could materialize its black venomous tentacles out of either land or air. It was difficult to say which was more disturbing. Some of the dead wanderers knew of their fate; some did not, nor had they any idea that years had passed since their last memory. One of those dead persons appeared in the uniform of a soldier of Chalter Medrium, and recognized Cuivielen from her dropping the chasm wall on him and on his comrades. His exclamations of despair led to some serious explaining on her part to her new comrades. Over the course of the unusual - and sometimes startling - day, Onyx made the beginnings of friendships with Galen and Hargreave, to whom she gave archery lessons. She also gave lessons to the young Elves, though those were summarily interrupted by the arrival of the tentacle thing. She discovered a good friend in Brynn, the young Elf maiden, who seemed sad but had a wicked and penetrating sense of humour. She found herself drawn to Jordan as a source of strength and stability in the chaos of the day, and as for Aeylarik - well, they spent a great deal of time talking, and sharing their stories each with the other. She felt his deep weariness and his abiding sadness; not quite a despair, but a profound loss. She invited him to tell her all the tale, and to her surprise, he did. As he unfolded the events of his last few years to her, she could not help but want to reach out to him, and to share the world as she saw it; not full of pain and disappointments, but shining with light and ringing with song. She tried, gently, and though she did get him to smile a bit, she could not penetrate that inner all-consuming grief. Earlier that morning, one of the Fair Folk had apparently left a chest for the party, full of spells and random treasure. Much debate was also had over that box during the day. Why would they leave it? Was it a gift? A bribe? What were the consequences of looking inside? Of taking or using any of the items? No satisfactory answer was ever discovered, and eventually the treasure was divided amongst the travelers. Cuivielen received a delicate gold bracelet, and wears it proudly. She does not fear the Fae, and is actually looking forward to meeting one or many of them. She feels that if they wish anything of her in return for the bracelet, they will have to talk to her, and few things would please her more. After the fall of darkness, a Dark Elf appeared in the camp. He was an ancient specimen, his long white hair falling nearly to his waist, and his bent form leaning on his wizard's staff for support. Cuivielen was deeply disturbed and angered at the approach of this entity, but Aeylarik was even more so. Aeylarik forced the Dark Elf to leave the bounds of the camp before Onyx was even aware of his presence; once she was, she approached near to the villain and unsheathed her sword, so that its light would be a token that all should know of his evil heart. Finally Jordan led the Dark Elf off for private converse, and Cuivielen was beside herself. She had thought well of Jordan, what could he want with that creature? She was so angry that she never did ask him, for fear that his answer would push her beyond her good sense. Aeylarik's palpable wrath had him pacing like a caged panther, and Cuivielen was not far behind. Unfortunately, at approximately this time, a man came in looking for Brenn. On edge now, Cuivielen drew her sword and again it lit, showing the man to be of evil heart, if not current evil intent. Howe'er, Aeylarik agreed to bring Brynn to meet the fellow, though not to allow him within the bounds of the camp. Brenn came up and threw her arms around the man, and Aeylarik and Cuivielen stalked off. Aeylarik was fuming by now, and suddenly declared that he had had enough. He would not stay in a camp a moment longer with those would would welcome the company and speech of these individuals, and he declared his intent to go immediately to alert the Council of the goings-on at their border. He charged Cuivielen with remaining and seeing to the safety of the travelers, specifically the children, and stalked off into the night, promising to return by mid-day with sufficient guards to escort any Elves to Laurea Thrond. Cuivielen performed as he had commanded. She stayed up a bit, alert for any new menace, and refraining from drinking with the boisterous Dwarves. Finally though she did have to sleep, and she sought her bedroll, praying to all the good gods that it be a quiet night. Her prayers were answered, and slowly the party reassembled in the morning as those chipper and those less so finally rolled from their beds. As was her wont, once there were other alert eyes than hers, she dropped into a meditative state and performed her morning stretching, followed by target practice. Strangely, her arrows would fly true nearly to the target, then veer aside at the last moment. Briefly she considered the wind, but the arrows would veer in any and all directions, so she reluctantly had to concede that some outside force was at work. This thought process led her to ponder once again the state of the area, and its disturbing drifting from its spiritual anchor point with the Fae. Think it through, girl. Problem: the Queen is dead. Problem: though we have it on good authority that her heir is alive, whatever makes her the anchor point for the connexion with the Fae obviously either has not transfered, or has not been activated. Fact: every Elf has a drop of the Fae in them, it's what makes us what we are. Plan of action: bind myself to the land. Here, now. Nothing was ever achieved by waiting. As Cuivielen had the last thought, whatever was between her and the target went away, and her arrow flew as true as could be. Well then. We'll take that for a good sign. She drew her sword, that mystery marked in Elven runes, and drew her index finger down its whisper-fine edge. Blood welled immediately, and she inverted her hand to let it drip upon the ground at her feet. She had no formal words, no lengthy ritual, but merely a simple prayer, "Let me bear this connexion, as much as I can bear. If I through my blood can bridge the gap between this land and the Fae, I will it to be so. I will take this burden, and gladly. I give myself to the land. If it may be so, then let it be as I will it." Something changed, though Cuivielen was not sure what. She didn't exactly feel any different, and she had no greater sense of the land than before, but she did feel that *something* had happened. It smacked of blood magik, of course, but not of evil or death. Strange. She betook herself back to the camp, and discussed her thoughts with Brenn. It was in Brenn's mind that the connexion could be shared among all Elfkind, with everyone bearing a piece of the burden. The idea made sense to Cuivielen, and they were discussing how to put it to the test when it became suddenly all too urgent that they do so. A strange swirling portal opened outside camp, within sight of the travelers. It was flowing black and purple, and it showed visions of other places. Some of that was the lands of the Fae, and some were the afterlife destinations of some of the other races - but some were nightmare lands, and Cuivielen had the strong and immediate feeling that to touch the portal was to be drawn instantly into it, never to return to this world. It was obviously another manifestation of the disconnection of the area. Time to go all in. Onyx quickly gathered all the Elves around her, and began a very brief discourse on what she had done earlier that day, and what she had learned. Brenn and Jordan and the two young boys agreed, and one by one they opened their skin and let their ruby blood drip on the thirsty ground. Clasping hands, they channeled their wills. It was their wish and their will that the land restore its connexion to the Fae, that the rift close and seal, that each of them take up a piece of the burden so long laid by. And as each of them vowed his or her blood to the goal, the rift began to shrink it upon itself. None too soon, for a hideous monster either escaped from the rift or was drawn to it. The rest of the travelers assayed a mighty battle against the beast as the Elves chanted, and bled. Finally it was done. The rift snapped shut, and the beast was slain. Each Elf, exhausted, fell where they had stood, and the other travelers rushed to their aid. Assisting them in standing, they led them all shaken back to the camp site to recover. Finally, at long last, the healing of the Realm was begun. Once they had recovered, Jordan and Brenn were walking off with the two Dwarves when Jordan stopped and gave Cuivielen a strange, almost measuring look. He invited her to accompany them on their walk out to the Faerie Circles in the field on the other side of the ridge. Willingly she complied, but was a bit startled when Jordan stopped them all and asked her for an oath of silence upon what they were to speak of. Believing that no good decision ever came from a lack of information, she agreed. The one thing from that meeting that she was allowed to speak on was a task charged to her by Jordan. He requested that she go to the Council, bearing his token, and speak to them of the Veldren Knights. His message was that the Veldren would apply themselves to assisting in finding the missing Heir to the Elven Throne, and that every Elven Veldren would be Tasked to the mission. He spoke of the need for the Elves and the Veldren to become closer and improve the bonds between the two, and this was a message that Cuivielen was happy to accept. Shortly after this, much to everyone's surprise, the actual keeper of the Waystation appeared. It was quickly revealed that Ichabod had simply stopped there to pass the night, and moved in when he realized it was untenated. This would not have been so bad, had he not out of expedience decided to feed the travelers on the bodies of the bandits that were slain early Saturday morning. He didn't seem to see anything wrong with this, but the travelers disagreed and attempted some rough road justice. Ikky escaped, but he is not to be trusted and if found should be remanded for trial. Not too long afterward, Aeylarik returned with a dozen Elven warriors at his back. He took Cuivielen aside for a quick update on the status of those he had left behind, while Hargreave began an almost-but-manfully-not-quite tearful farewell to the boys who had been his charges. The merchant woman awoke at last, and with her new man-at-arms Castren beside her, she went back to her wagons. Brenn and Jordan made their farewells, heading off with their Dwarven companions, and Galen and Hargreave took their leave as well. Last of all Marna Sutter wished Onyx a fond farewell. She would be camping for a while at the waystation, in hopes of being able to secure passage within the Elven forest. Aeylarik had promised to return to her with word of the Council's decision. The moment was now. Nervous, but determined to find out who she had been (a matter which caused her no small amount of wonder and worry), Cuivielen strode lightly down the wooded path, following her new friends toward an old destiny. Short version - Aeylarik leads the party back to Laurea Thrond. She and Aeylarik spend much of the time in conversation. The next day, Aeylarik heads off to present the children, and all his Gatherings, to the appropriate parties. Onyx heads to the Queen's Tree, because Jordan told her it might bring back her memories. It does. She remembers that she's a True Mage; and now that she knows what to look for, she realizes that the necklace that the old couple in Karandia gave her was a mage's focus. She also remembers that she is a Knight of the Black Rose, nominated by the woman she saved in the mountain pass, and made so at the feet of the late Queen. Pieces of her past fling themselves at her. It will be months before it's all sorted out in her head, but at least most of it is there. She remembers that the Queen sent her for the sword she carries, though she did not tell her what she meant to do with it. The one piece that she still cannot remember is what happened on the mountain top. She also remembers where her dwelling is. She goes and finds it; nine years of wind and weather have done some damage to the goods within, not that there were many to begin with. There is an old spellbook there, water ruined and too fragile to take out in the lands. She sets herself to copying it in her spare time over the next several days. None of her old knight's tabards have survived, so she visits a tiny Elven seamstress that she knows from long ago to have her measurements taken for a new garment. The next morning, she presents herself at the Council's halls. They are deliberating over Aeylarik's information, but agree to see her when she presents herself with her full credentials. Everyone's faces are familiar now, and flashes of memory keep sorting themselves out as she meets old friends and old adversaries - happily many more of the former than the latter. Once she is before the Council, she presents Jordan's token and tells the Elders of his desire to bring the Veldren Knights and the Elven Council into a better relationship. She speaks of his intent that all the Elves among the Veldren Knights be Tasked to find the Heir. She speaks of greater levels of intelligence reports, aid, and friendship between the two peoples. As the Council is deliberating that, she launches into the next topic - that of all the Elves splitting the burden of keeping the connexion alive to the Fae Lands. She tells of the events at The Way Station, her own testing of her theory and the ritual that she, Jordan and the rest participated in that healed that section of the border. She offers to teach any and all how to do the same, that the land might not wither and die before the Heir is returned. She speaks of it then in the terms of Magik, with which she is once again familiar, and invites those so inclined to test her to see the small channel of energy that is continually maintained between she and the land. The Council members' almond-shaped eyes grow wide with amazement as they listen. At last she asks for their proper and due consideration, bows, and departs. She knows they speed at which they discuss and deliberate, and she knows she will not receive an answer that day.